


Chiaroscuro

by sevenisles



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Drabble, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 19:29:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenisles/pseuds/sevenisles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Love," he says, simply– as if it doesn’t cut to the core of her, doesn’t taste sharp and bright in her mouth, a flutter of wonder and resignation and curiosity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chiaroscuro

**Author's Note:**

> A tumblr drabble because it's late at night and I should be asleep but listening to Chopin does things for me and Klaroline apparently.

"Love," he says, simply– as if it doesn’t cut to the core of her, doesn’t taste sharp and bright in her mouth, a flutter of wonder and resignation and curiosity. Because really, yes, there are things she can stand to be proud of, dark things that have enveloped her heart and the soft flesh under her eyes, but there is strength there too, and she wonders why he, of all people and of all creatures, why he can see it.

So he says it, says “love,” and it rolls from his tongue, seems to ring in the air easy and free, and she can’t help but think that maybe, in some universe– one parallel to the one she’s in, a universe where she is warm and with cheeks flushed, lips pursed –that it is meant for her, but more than that: she deserves it.

And, like, what is that about even? She can be loved, she knows that she _is_ loved, by her mother, by her friends, but there is a line in the sand which has been drawn against creatures of the night, but what can that really mean to her, anymore? She is night and night is she and it sings to her, feels calm and cool wrapped around her shoulders, dark calling to dark. But then he will say it, say it casually, warmly, say it with conviction or with sarcasm, with good humor and bad, and it keeps cutting her, keeps pealing in her body like some gothic bell and God, why does it do that? How can he be so frustrating and terrible and beautiful and why is it, all of a sudden, that the burn in her bones when someone says his name has shifted to this other unholy fire, something that feels less like hate and more like–

"Love," he says, and she can only breathe, let it sink into her empty places and harden there like some strange diamond, something sharp and uncomfortable, but something bearable too, something that shines inside.


End file.
